


Stan meets Rick

by Maksvell



Category: Gravity Falls, Rick and Morty
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Alternate Universe - Zombies, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Cock & Ball Torture, Georgia, Inspired by The Walking Dead, Kidnapping, Laser Pistol, Lasers, M/M, Meteor, Moon, NSFW, Pulp Fiction References, References to Canon, References to Doogie Howser, References to House MD, References to MASH (TV), References to The Punisher, References to the Beatles, Roadtrip, Science Fiction, Serial Killer, Torture, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-16 15:16:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16956423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maksvell/pseuds/Maksvell
Summary: Stan meets up with a skinny twink named Rick after they both get kidnapped by a serial killer.





	1. Maxwell Edison

The electricity that moved through the coat hanger that was pressed into Stan’s balls that was found to be comparable to that of Zeus striking with a thunderbolt. Stan let out a screech of unbearable pain and turmoil. His mind shattering and begging for the sweet release of death. 

The pain ceased and Stan looked up as his tormenter slid his balls back inside his jeans. Max Edison, serial killer and go-go dancer stood above him, wearing a sick grin like a demented mask. It was a grin that conveyed two things: 1. He was two seconds away from cumming in his pants. 2. That this was not the smile of a typical person. Max took a large carving knife and smacked Stan across the face with it.

Maxwell Edison-Carrigan was a veteran of the war in Vietnam. At one point in his time, he was your typical American youth, long blonde hair, and a sense of androgyny that made him hot to most people. He was also a semi-self centered son of some middle-class parents who were more than a little-pissed off when he dropped out of college to hang out with an English sailor in New York. Though, he was admittedly pissed off when he was drafted into the army. When he arrived in the jungles of Vietnam he bore witness to the savagery of his comrades. A week into his tour he watched as a group of soldiers attempted to gang rape a woman who fled a burning village. They were all put down like dogs by his commanding officer, a marine by the name of Castiglione had each of them put down like dogs. Castiglione would die a few years later after attempting to gun down an up and coming crime boss by the name of Marsellus Wallace. Two days later he would see an Alabaman man running through the jungle, tears in his eyes while carrying the body of his deceased lieutenant while screaming something about “Bubba.” It didn’t get better when he returned home, addled and shaken. His sister, Lucy would frequently visit the military hospital that he was at. But, it was also the hospital where two scientists Doctor David Houser and Captain Benjamin F. Pierce would commit a series of crude experiments with LSD and other psychotics in the demented hope to create the perfect killing machine. Max was one of his patients. He was discharged from the hospital a month later. Nothing had improved. His sister died during a riot when one of the “peaceful” protestors brought a homemade bomb that killed a multitude of protestors and the cops that were sent in to “pacify” them. Lucy was in a phone booth when it happened. She was on the phone and she was talking to their mother. A piece of shrapnel tore through the booth and tore her head from her body. He only found out about it via his uncle Theodore. His parents refused to tell him, the two of them still absurdly angry at him for dropping out of college. He lost it not long after that. Broke into their house in the middle of the night and killed the two of them with an old rusty hammer that he found in the garage. Now years later, he finds himself sitting in his new home, torturing some schmucky drifter that was unlucky enough to pass out at the nearest bar. 

The force of the smack sent Stan and the chair he was tied to, careening into the hard concrete floor. As he fell Stan heard a snap come from the chair's frame. Max didn’t seem to notice, so Stan took full advantage of the situation. He shifted his torso and lifted his arms, relieving the chair of its arms in the process. He sent a meaty fist directly into the side of the schlubby knee of Max. He crumbled like a house made of cards. Stan quickly struggled to untie himself from the remaining ropes that were around his ankles, giving Max adequate time to land the knife in his shoulder. Stan let out a pained cry and punched him in the chest, digging the knife out and using it to cut away the remaining ropes.


	2. Wall Twink and the Rock From Space

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan escapes the clutches of Max and finds an ally in a fellow captive.

Escaping the room, Stan found himself fleeing into a tangling maze of halls, all the while hearing the panicked stomping of Max behind him and the frantic and violent screaming. Blood continued to leak from his arm when he hid inside a random room. The room was dark, and on the wall just before the door was what seemed to be the corpse of an angular latino man. He was hanging from chains suspended from the ceiling. It appeared that he was being crucified. When he turned to face it, he initially let out a startled gasp. This awoke the wild-haired twink. The man awoke with a drunken belch and caused Stan to have to stifle a scream. 

 

"Hey man, cuh-can ya help me out here?”, said the skinny man as he lifted up his head to meet Stan’s gaze. His eyes were an intense green colour, unlike any shade that stan had ever seen before, and they seemed to glow like the eyes of a wildcat when you shine a light on them. 

 

“Yeah,” Stan looked around the room and happened upon a set of bolt cutters near the door. “I’m gonna get you out of this.”

 

He ran over to the door, grabbed the bolt cutters and went over to the crucified man. Three audible “clink” noises rang out and the skinny man fell to the floor with a hard thud. 

 

“Son of a bitch...”, he said as he started to stand up, his face contorted with a look of agony. He extended his hand to Stan. 

 

Stan grasped the hand firmly. He was about to introduce himself but Max entered the room with a blood-curdling sound that to Stan sounded like a noise he heard a cat make after an older boy in grade school set it on fire after hitting it with a 2x4. 

 

“You fuckin insects. You have the audacity to think that you could escape me?”

 

Max blocked the door, he was dressed in a pair of bright yellow dyed denim shorts.  **Only** a pair of bright yellow dyed denim shorts. Over his shoulders, he had a worn leather backpack and in his hand, he held the strangest damn thing that Stan had ever seen. It was a pistol, roughly the size of your average .44 caliber revolver, it was glowing in alternating, of electric peach and neon aquamarine, on the end of the long solid tube that constituted the barrel was an inverted semi-cone where the wider end was aimed at the skinny man and Stan.

 

“Wuh-where did you get that?”, said the skinny man, the look of irritation contrasted well with Stan’s look of confusion at the sight of something that looked like it belonged on the set of one of the biographic serials of Flash Gordon. He thought fondly of how Ford would be over the moon, watching the dramatizations of Flash’s life. That is whenever the local theater would play them.

 

“I got it out of your stupid bag when I picked you up in the parking lot, spic.” 

 

Stan watched as the thin man slowly walked up to Max. A fiery look in his emerald eyes that let him know that he felt no fear. 

 

“Suh-so, I take it you know how to use it then. You must’ve suh-saw me when I was shooting the beer bottles,” gripped Max’s hand and Stan could hear a loud pop. He guided the hand so that the barrel pressed against his forehead. “So, do it! Wuh-why don’t you duh-do us both a favour and pull the fucking trigger!”

 

Stan heard a loud click, followed by Max suddenly shaking, being overtaken by something. He let out a pained cry as he collapsed to the floor, spasming. The skinny man gave him a swift kick to the gut, before grabbing both the weird pistol and the backpack off of him.

 

“Thuh-that’s the thing you didn’t know, I-I’ve configured the gun to only work for me. Not you, me. Fucking idiot.” 

 

The skinny man took a pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the backpack. It was a little faded red and yellow box of Patriot Brand Cigarettes.  _ Ma’s old brand.  _ Stan thought to himself wistfully. The stranger made a gesture with his left hand and Stan followed him, out of the room. 

 

“I’m Stan, by the way,” he said as he held out his hand for the stranger to shake it again. This time the man refused. 

 

“Rick Sanchez,” he took the cigarette from between his lips and flicked it at the floor, it was still lit. It crashed against the cold, rotten wood floor and they could both see it ignite. The elected to ignore it as they were nearing an exit. They stepped out of the house that, within a matter of hours would go up in flames, hopefully with their kidnapper tormentor inside, getting charred like an unsupervised thanksgiving turkey.  

 

They stepped out, into the tall grass of a long-abandoned farm in rural Georgia. They breathed in deep the air of freedom, and then a small piece of gravel struck Rick in the back of the head sending him falling face first into the mud. Stan turned and saw Max just behind them, a crazed look on his face and a sickle in his hand. He walked towards them slowly flailing the farming tool around wildly as he inched closer to them. Rick quickly stood up, his face caked with firm mud, and fumbling in his bag for a weapon. 

 

“Can’t you just use that raygun thing?”

“I-I would Stan, b-but dipshit over there used up all the juice when he tried to kill me. Just give me a sec.”

  
  


“To Pepper’s Land we go, our heads held high upon stakes make of spine…”, he chanted lackadaisically as he marched closer to them.

 

Just as Max was just a mere foot away from them, his blade extended to slash at Rick, the three of them were distracted by a sudden sighting in the sky. A massive comet, eclipsed the full moon, and only seemed to grow larger, and larger. They all froze and observed this wonder of nature, only Rick seemed really concerned by it. The thing must have crashed a few miles away because they could all hear a massive sonic boom. Stan closed his eyes as the sound caused him to wince in pain, and when he opened them, Max and Rick were stumbling towards him, their eyes wide and unblinking. Their decaying mouths agape, animalistic moans escaping. The zombies started to sprint at Stan.

 


	3. Zombies and Spores

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zombie Rick and Max are on the move, what shall become our stalwart duo that's destined to become the ultimate of star-crossed lovers.

Stanley stared at the pair of them in abject horror, the zombified Rick knocked away the zombified Max and leapt on top of him, clacking his teeth wildly, as though he was attempting to bite his face off, but Stan’s forearm kept him away. It then began to grip firmly at Stan’s face. His eyes rolled back and everything became blurry. Within moments Stanley found himself staring up at a fairly normal looking Rick, who wore a very strange, homemade looking gas mask. He crawled off of Stan before quickly gripping his hand and dragging him off. Stan turned behind them and saw another very normal looking Max clumsily chasing them.

“Rick? What the hell just happened?” said Stan as Max continued to belt out animalistic growls. 

“You suffered a very intense hallucination, bruh-brought on by the Moktraxian spores that just crashed.”

“What?”

“It’s like a-a mushroom, a mushroom grows from spores, yeah? W-well, this thing also grows f-from spores, b-but it has an unhealthy side effect of causing hallucinations of t-the homicidal variety. I-it tries to land on planets and make people think that, that they’re out to get one another, and in our case it m-made you believe that dipshit and I were zombies.”

“How would you know about that?”

“I may have infected an a-an entire planet with them because I was bored.”

“Planet? You’ve been to space?”

“Bitch. I am the god of space.” 

The two of them, not seeing exactly where it was that they were going tripped over a rock and fell into a waterless creek bed. Stan’s arm ached as he picked himself out of the mud, blood still leaking from the wound. 

“You’re a fucking psycho, Rick.”

Rick sat up, hearing the footsteps of Max growing distant. He dug around in his bag, his eyes occasionally looking towards Stan’s wound. 

“What are you looking at?”

“Huh-hang on, I-I might have something to help for that,” he extended a long, spider-like finger at the wound, before digging out a large jar of bright orange coloured gel. He tossed the little jar at Stan who would have caught it expertly if I was wearing his glasses. Instead, it fell just short of his reach and landed in the mud. Stan picked up the jar and opened it. Oddly enough it smelled like lavender flavoured chewing gum. 

“Y-ya gotta smear it on the wound.”

Stan took off his muddy shirt, Rick’s eyes widened and he bit on his lip as he saw him strip it off. Stan looked and gave a brief smile before rubbing the orange gel onto the wound. It stung like a bitch with beans on her tits, but he noticed that it caused the muscle and skin to grow back together like it was nothing.


	4. Breaking in or What keeps mankind alive?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rick and Stan try to break into an impound lot to get Stan's car back.

The impound lot was heavily guarded by a couple of tripped out police officers who were still convinced that they were savage, primal beasts,  in addition to a high rising chain link fence that was topped with razor wire. They clumsily stumbled around, occasionally bumping into fences and whatnot. The town of Woodbury, Georgia was crawling with folks who thought they were animals, and folks that thought that there were zombies about, lone scared folks who were more than often armed to the teeth. Stan and Rick spied the lot from afar, while they were recovering from the altercation with Max. Stan agreed to let Rick travel with him, help him out when things got hairier than his chest, and a cut of the loot from heists with him. In their mutual opinion it was a pretty sweet deal. The duo found themselves sitting in a tree just outside of town, spying on the lot with a pair of binoculars that they shared. 

 

“I’m just suh-saying, it would be sooooo easy if we went in, guns blazing and just took the car.” 

 

“And I’m just saying that most of those people are innocent, they’re just a little... Y’know wacky right now.”

 

Rick let out an annoyed sigh,  _ fuck this guy is adorable and far too hopeful.  _ He thought to himself. “O-okay, f-follow me,” he said before sliding down to the ground below, quietly so as not to alert any cops turned feral animal. Rick lead Stan to the back of a store and passed Stan a set of lockpicks. 

 

“You said y-you’re good with this, ruh-right?”

 

“Yeah, this is a little lever handle. I used to get through these kinds of doors in grade school.”

 

“Well cut the chat a-and hurry, t-these maniacs will h-hunt us down like dogs, Stan.”

 

“Jesus, give me a break, would ya?” Stan then began to sing a little quiet jingle to himself. “Pickin’ a lock, doodly do, don’t wanna get eaten by a mailman, doodly do…”

 

“W-what the fuck are you doing?”

 

“Just singing a bit to myself, keeps me in a good headspace. Fuck off.”

 

Rick let out another irritated groan. If it wasn’t for the fact that his tech was without a charge or the fact that his new companion was an adorable beefcake of a man, or the fact that said beefcake happened to be an expert thief with a car. He wouldn’t take any of this nonsense. He was Rick fucking Sanchez for god’s sake. He fought the ice demon Saint Nicholas to a standstill in the ammonia planes of Charon. He and his cousin Escobar beat the shit out of the corrupt detective  Colt Luger with a sock full of batteries. Rick was a stone cold motherfucker. 

 

With a harsh click, the door was unlocked and Stan had forced his way into the store. Rick drew his gun and began to rush around with the deranged glee of a child if you fed it a handful of caffeine pills followed by a hearty handful of cocaine. He rushed up to Stan, arms full of rolls of fabric and plastic pipes. 

 

“Meet me on the roof, handsome.”, in the back of his mind, Rick could hear a little version of his mother’s voice screaming  _ Jesus Christ! How could I do that! He’s gonna think that I’m a freak!   _ Rick did what he did best and pushed those anxious thoughts down with a hit of J. Darby’s that he kept in a hip flask he took off some one-eyed maniac in England. 

 

Stan rushed to the roof and met with Rick, who had rapidly assembled a glider of sorts out long rolls of black vinyl that was stretched over a frame made of PVC pipes. Rick stood above it triumphantly, with his hands on his hips. 

 

“R-ready to go?” he said as he turned to face his compatriot.

 

“What the heck do ya mean?”

 

“T-to the, the impound lot Stan, w-we glide down there, break into the office, get your keys, and, and get the hell outta dodge.”

 

“I don’t do flying.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“It's...impractical, is all. Y’know it might just be safer if we go around,” Stan seemed to be trying to direct the conversation.

 

“A-are you afraid of heights Stan?” he said with a curious cock of his head to the side like a confused puppy. 

 

“W-what? No. That’s nuts. You’re a real kidder, Rick!”, his statement was then followed by forced, mechanical sounding laughter. 

 

Rick let out a sigh and dug a strange gun from his bag, it had a massive harpoon looking thing mounted on the front barrel. He took aim and fired it at the pavement of the lot, revealing a long taught rope that ran cleanly over the fence, leaving ample room for Rick.

“Okay, i-if you’re gonna be a baby about it, I-I’ll handle it myself.”, he took off his belt and wrapped it around the taut rope and ziplined down the rope and landed in the parking lot. His entrance captured the attention of the cops, who began to noisily bang on the fence. Which attracted the attention of more folks who began to press down on the against the fence. Rick didn’t notice the growing horde as he had already entered the office proper in search of the keys. Stan shouted down in an attempt to warn him, but to no avail, this only caused part of the horde to splinter off and surround the building that he was standing on top of. Stan swallowed his fear and took off his shirt (more of that) and wrapped it around the rope and zipped down to the pavement. As he descended he accidentally let go and busted his ass on the asphalt lot. He let out a frustrated wince and rushed into the office where he discovered Rick grappling with a fourteen-year-old with a knife. Rick had a long metal pole, like the kind that might be used to hold up a street sign and was using it to keep the little maniac back. Stan bulldozed into the room and snatched up the kid by the back of his shirt, and smacked the knife out of his hands. The kid winced in fear and ran away from the duo.

 

“What the heck was that?”

 

“Little motherfucker, bum rushed me, S-stan. H-he cut me good on my leg,” the little bastard then ran out and crotch punched Rick, sending him to the floor before running off into the shadows of the office. “Son of a bitch! Stan, I-I need you to w-withhold your judgment, buh-but I might kill that little kid before t-this night is over.”

 

“Rick, just cool it, he’s probably freaked out.”

 

“F-fuck him, l-let’s just find your goddamn keys.” 

 

Rick slowly rose to his feet, cradling his balls as he and trudged behind Stan, over to a desk. The two then set out to rummage through the drawers.

 

“So, wuh-what exactly do these keys look like?”, said the still pained sounding Rick. 

 

“It’s two keys, on a flame orange rabbit’s foot keychain.

 

“Jesus.”

 

“What?”

 

“N-nothing, I just didn’t realize thuh-that I’d be hanging out with the gaudiest person imaginable.”  

 

“Hey, fuck off. It’s classy.”

 

“Like las vegas.”

 

“Yeah, exactly.”

 

Rick let out an exasperated sigh, before crying out in the victory. He then proceeded to laugh maniacally as he held up the keychain high above his head.


End file.
